


Letters to Sunshine

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dysfunctional Family, Epistolary, Explanations, Friendship, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian and Justin are married, but Justin still knows little about Brian's child and young adulthood.  It's a source of tension, but Brian (surprise, surprise) has a hard time talking.  Writing letters makes things a little easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Letter

August 16, 2005

Dear Sunshine,

Last weekend sucked. I’m sure you agree. I was in a shit mood and took it out on you. I hope you’re not still pissed off, but if you are, then consider this letter a peace offering.

As you know, I hate talking about what things were like when I was a kid. It stirs up memories that I’ve been trying for years to forget. That’s why I got so upset when you kept asking me questions. But it’s time for me to stop being evasive. You’re my husband, and you deserve to know about my childhood. Hell, it might explain some of my more irritating and inscrutable personality quirks. I don’t want you to play my therapist though. I don’t need a therapist, and I sure as hell don’t want to be fucking one. Promise me you won’t start psychoanalyzing me or, God forbid, suggest I go on Prozac or something. Seriously, Justin. I’ll be really pissed.

Well, where should I start? You know the basic outline: my dad was an abusive drunk and my mom was a frigid bitch. They both resented my existence. Don’t think I’m being melodramatic because it’s true. Both of them have literally told me that they wish I’d never been born. The only reason I’m alive and breathing is because my mom’s a Jesus freak and didn’t want to go to hell for getting an abortion. It’s a good thing she isn’t an atheist or I’d have ended up a bloody glob on the end of a clothes hanger. 

I don’t know if my dad hated me, my mom and Claire, but he sure as fuck didn’t love us. The only things he loved were his union, Jack Daniels, a pack of cards and pussy on the side. And baseball. He was a big Phillies fan. He brought me to a couple games when we lived in Scranton. Twice he got so drunk on piss-warm beer that he forgot where he parked the car and we had to take a cab home. But I don’t think he did things with me once in a while because he “loved” me or something. I think he thought of it as his duty – something to suck up and bear. Booze always helped in that regard.

You asked me about my earliest memory. Here you go. I don’t know how old I was, but it was at some point during our time in Cleveland. I remember trying to climb up on a windowsill. There was an old lady who lived in the house next door who used to walk this ugly mutt every morning, and I liked to watch her. Usually, my mom would hold me, so I could see out the window, but she wasn’t around for some reason. I remember the paint on the windowsill was peeling and I got a piece of it wedged under my fingernail. I remember it hurt and I was screaming my head off, but my mom never came to see what was wrong. I look back on that moment now and think about how it sort of sums up my whole relationship with Joan. She just never seemed to be around when I needed her. I also look back and wonder if there’d been lead in that paint. There probably had been, and I was breathing the shit in every day. Great. Just great.

Come to think of it, most of my early childhood memories involve pain. I wonder if that’s one of the reasons I turned out to be such a hedonist – I’d earned my pleasure. I was constantly falling off things. I’m lucky I’m not covered in scars considering all the times I had to go to the hospital to get stitches. And then, of course, there was Jack who would use his belt on me for shit so inconsequential that I wouldn’t even know what I’d done until he started yelling about it. He used to slap and shove me around, but he only hit me in the face a couple of times, and that was when I was a teenager. Good thing the fucker didn’t break my nose or I would’ve killed him before the cancer did.

I also remember moving a lot. Jack was constantly getting laid off. I’ve lived in more shitty, depressing cities than I can count. They’re all kind of a blur because they all looked the same – grey and crumbly with lots of boarded-up buildings – and we always lived in the same kind of place. Usually, the neighborhood was Italian or Irish because my mom had to have her fucking church around the corner because she couldn’t drive back then. The houses were all three-stories with the landlords on the first floor. We always lived on the second floor. Everything was always old and dirty. All the appliances were from the early sixties, and former tenants had beaten the shit out of them. I remember at our place in Scranton only one of the stove burners worked. We lived there for three fucking years, and the landlord did nothing. He kept saying he would, but he never did.

My bedrooms were always the size of a closet. Claire always got the biggest one after my parents’ because, for some reason, my mom thought girls needed more space than boys. Plus, she liked Claire better or at least it seemed that way. Claire never gave my mom shit about going to church like I did. That didn’t last though. By the time she was a teenager, she’d fallen out of favor. She dated one dirt-bag after another and even managed to get pregnant once. She went to Boston where my mom’s family lives to have the baby and put it up for adoption. All I can say is that the kid was lucky. He or she really dodged a bullet not being raised by Claire, or more likely my mom because Claire was only sixteen at the time.

Speaking of Claire, she was quite the bitch – a real, old, shiny fucking apple right off the Kinney tree. When I was really little, she used to pinch me to make me scream so that I’d get spanked. She was jealous of me from day one because Jack used to take me fishing or to a ball game now and then. Because she was a girl, he didn’t have a fucking clue what to do with her. She wanted his approval so badly. It’s sad, actually, now that I look back on it. He didn’t beat her like he did me, but he rarely gave her the time of day. Old bastard.

The one good thing about having a drunk as a dad, though, was he was really easy to steal shit from. I used to raid his wallet for fives and tens when I was little, and then when I got older (as in thirteen or so) I stole his cigarettes and booze. A couple times he caught me and whipped the shit out of me, but most of the time he either didn’t notice something was missing or thought he’d spent or drunk it himself. I stole a hundred bucks from him once and bought a ten-speed that Mikey later totaled, but most of the time I was only stealing enough money to buy comic books, movie tickets and weed. Not that there was ever a ton of cash lying around. Jack gambled at least half of his paycheck every month, and what he didn’t gamble, he spent on whiskey. The fucker couldn’t hold onto a dollar to save his life. Before he got the decent paying job that brought us to Pittsburgh, my mom had to work two shitty jobs so we’d have enough money for food and clothes and basic shit like that.

So, what else can I tell you? I think you’ve got the picture. I’m not going to keep going. I feel like I’m complaining or trying to excuse things I’ve done or haven’t done. I hate it when people pull the whole “wah, wah, wah, I had such a bad childhood” bullshit. Life is what you make of it. You can either get the fuck over stuff or you can stay stuck where you are. One thing I figured out at a young age was that I wasn’t going to let Jack and Joan shape the kind of man I was going to be. Once I figured out that they were never going to change and I was never going to win their love or approval or whatever, I turned my back on them and their world. Their fucking Irish Catholic working class world. I was better than that world and I was better than them, and as far as I was concerned, the whole bunch of them could kiss my rosy pink ass.

You’re lucky Justin. I know it bugs the crap out of you when I tell you that, but it’s true. Your dad turned out to be just as big a dick as mine, but at least he was there for you when you were growing up. You had a normal childhood with a loving family and all that good shit. You lived in a big house full of nice stuff and went to the best schools in the city. You had life handed to you on a silver platter, and before you get all pissed off at me for saying that, let me tell you that that’s a good thing, not something you should be ashamed of. Having a drunk father kick the shit out of you doesn’t “build character.” It breaks it down and forces you to put the pieces back together. That’s not something any kid should ever have to go through, which is why Gus is going to have every luxury I can buy. It’s also why I want to be a part of his life. Don’t ever tell them I said this, but Linds and Mel aren’t exactly the greatest parents in the world. Gus needs me, and I’m going to be there for him.

Okay, I’m going to stop writing before I get all gooey and lesbionic. I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m tired as hell. I haven’t slept much since I got back from NYC. It sucks knowing I hurt you. I know it doesn’t make up for me being a shithead, but picking a fight wasn’t my intention. I couldn’t help myself. I’ll make up for it this weekend. I’ll take Friday afternoon off. Don’t try to change your shift at the restaurant though. I’ve got lots of work shit that I can do while you’re serving spaghetti and meatballs. At least you don’t sing, though. If you did, I’d have to demand that you let me pay your bills so you could quit.

Blah blah blah. I’m going to bed now.

Yours,  
B.


	2. The Second Letter

August 22, 2005

Dear Sunshine,

God, this morning was fucking hot as all hell, wasn’t it? I’m amazed I didn’t get a blister on my dick. Is your ass sore? It’s a good thing you’re a waiter and not a secretary. If you were, you’d be squirming in your chair all day tomorrow. Actually, I kind of like that image. I’ll file it away in my jerk-off folder for later use.

By the way, I meant to tell you: don’t do that thing with your tongue with another guy. That little trick is for me only. Got it?

Speaking of other guys: to answer your questions, no, I haven’t been tricking, and, yes, if you’re not either, then we can fuck without a condom. It’s not like I have some blanket rule against bare backing, and it’s definitely not that I don’t trust you to tell me if you’re fucking other guys, it’s just that I’ve never not used a condom, and the whole concept freaks me out a bit. That’s all. I don’t have any hang-ups or secret agendas or anything like that. If you want to fuck raw when you come home over Labor Day, that’s more than fine with me. 

Thanks for not pulling a Sigmund Freud on me when we talked about my letter this weekend, although I could tell you were itching to. You started vibrating a couple times. I appreciate it. Like I said, I really hate talking about this shit, and I don’t see why it’s necessary to go into so much detail, but if it’ll make you happy, then I’ll do it. Just don’t treat me differently as though I can only be handled with kid gloves. I’m not a piece of precious china from the Ming dynasty. I’ve survived perfectly intact for 35 years.

You wanted to know if I had a lot of friends growing up. The answer is no. It’s hard to have friends when you’re changing schools all the time. Twice I started a school year in one state and ended it in another. There was only one place we lived in long enough for me to remain in the same school three years in a row. Unfortunately, that was when we lived in Scranton. God, the schools there sucked! Plus we lived in a pretty rough neighborhood. It was junior high, too, which is the worst time of life in my opinion. I was on the smallish side and got the shit kicked out of me a couple times. I actually started carrying a knife. I never used it, but I felt better with it in my pocket. It was a hazard though – one time it opened in the pocket of my down parka and slit it open. Half the feathers fell out. Got a slap from Jack for it. At least I’d expected it though. A lot of time he slapped me just because I was there to slap.

To be honest, being at school sucked almost as much as being at home. At least at home, I could go to my room and lock the door. The teachers were all either dumb as pig shit or so burned out from dealing with little shits like me that they were just phoning it in. You’ll be happy to know, though, that the art teacher in Scranton was pretty good. I remember liking her. She was the one who got me interested in photography. She even gave me an old Polaroid camera she had lying around. I took a lot of pictures of people when they weren’t looking, including Jack. I wish I still had those pictures. I remember in most of them, he seemed old and faded – like a memory of himself and not a real person at all. I think seeing him like that – just an old drunk – helped me get over my longing for his attention and approval. Looking through the lens of a camera gave me a different perspective. He wasn’t a dad any kid would be proud of. I started not caring what he thought of me. It was a relief actually. I felt liberated.

Back to your question about friends – the only kids I might consider “friends” were the kids I drank and smoked with under the bleachers on Friday nights, but in hindsight, they only hung-out with me because I was the one supplying the booze. I liked Friday nights, though. I had something do other than watch T.V. and wait for Jack to come home and find something to yell at me for. The kids were real losers though. I bet not one of them finished high school. There were a couple of skanky girls who were always around, too. I fingered one of them on a bet and puked when I smelled my finger. The guys all laughed their asses off and made the girl cry. Classy, huh?

Now that I’m thinking about all of this, I’m starting to remember having a couple friends at the elementary school I went to in Allentown. We used to play together during recess. I remember there was a jungle gym made out of steel pipes that kids were always knocking out their teeth on. If they had something like that in a school playground these days, the district would get the shit sued out of it. We used to hang upside down by our knees. I can remember only one of the kid’s names mostly because it was unusual. Sasha Smith. He had red hair and a face shaped like a football lying on its side. He was nice though. Kind of hapless but nice. God, I haven’t thought about those kids in ages.

As you know, my first real friend was Mikey. I met him right after we moved to Pittsburgh. At first, I thought he was kind of pathetic. He got shoved around all the time and never stood up for himself. I know now that not fighting back was actually a survival mechanism, but I didn’t get it at the time. I think I would’ve just ignored him except I realized he was gay. I could tell from the way he was always checking out guys in the locker room. I was just starting to experiment with sex, and I wanted someone I could talk to about it. Plus, to be honest, I could tell he had a crush on me. It was a real ego boost. He basically worshipped the ground I walked on. Our friendship started off being pretty lopsided, but that changed when I got to know him better. We had a lot of things in common. We were both a bit geeky and had a thing for comic books and action movies.

I know you think my friendship with Mikey is a little weird. I won’t disagree with you. By the time I met you, it’d become pretty dysfunctional. But it wasn’t always like that. Mikey was the first person who ever truly cared about me. I’d never known what it was to be loved, and to be honest, I think I got addicted to the feeling. I could show up on Deb’s doorstep at three o’clock in the morning, drunk off my ass, and she’d always let me in. I’m not sure she really wanted to, but Mikey always insisted. He’d hold my hair back when I puked and give me ice to put on a split lip or a black eye (curtesy of Jack). No one had ever done anything like that for me before. I realize now that I was really lonely before I met Mikey, and he made that loneliness go away.

You asked me if he’s ever seen me cry. The answer is yes. Not often, but sometimes things at home would get out of control, and I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I couldn’t cry in front of anyone else. Crying used to infuriate my dad. He thought boys shouldn’t cry, and he was going to make damn sure his “sonny boy” wasn’t going to end up a sissy. I stopped crying in front of my parents when I was eight or nine – maybe earlier, I can’t remember. But I could cry with Mikey. It wasn’t easy because even though I knew he loved me, I felt weak when I cried. I still do, which is why you’ve only seen me cry once. I know it freaked you out a bit – especially because it was right before you left for NYC. I felt bad about that. I worried I’d made you feel guilty. I hope I didn’t. That’s not why I got upset. I wasn’t trying to get you to stay. I guess I just felt a bit overwhelmed. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d want to stay together. I thought you might go to NYC and want to start a new life. I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you did.

Mikey’s been a good friend since you left. It’s kind of like things used to be, although not as weird. We go to the gym and Woody’s every week. He likes to take care of me, and to be honest, sometimes I feel like I need being taken care of. DON’T MAKE A BIG DEAL OUT OF THAT! I want you to be in New York and to have the best time you can, it’s just that sometimes my demons come out from under the bed late at night, and I start missing you like crazy.

I’m not sure how I feel about this little archeological project of yours, Justin. I guess I know why you’re asking me all these questions – as you said, you want to get to know me better – but it’s not easy for me, and frankly I’m worried hearing about all this shit will make you pity me or something. I don’t need anyone’s pity, especially yours. We’re equal partners, and in my opinion, people in a relationship aren’t equal when one pities the other. We need to stand on level ground. Hell, isn’t that why you’re refusing to let me pay your bills? You want to be your own man. So do I. Also, I’m not a product of my childhood. I know that’s the common theory, that people are primarily shaped by their upbringing, but I’m living proof that that’s bullshit. Look at Claire for example. We both came from the same home, but we’re nothing like each other. I mean, look at her life. She’s been married and divorced twice. She’s a secretary for some piss-ant ambulance chaser. She fucked up her kids, and on top of all that, she’s in debt. She came crying to me the other day about all the collection agencies she’s got calling her all the time. Needless to say, I told her to fuck off. I haven’t forgotten that whole molestation thing. She can go fuck herself.

Anyway, I don’t want to end this letter talking about Claire – or any member of my family. I don’t like thinking about them. What I like thinking about is your cock and your ass – and, okay, your eyes and your lips and your face. Actually, I like thinking about all of you. There, how’s that for romantic? Never let it be said that that I can’t be romantic now and then.

Yours (Duh!),  
B.


	3. The Third Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter contains references to past sexual abuse.

Justin’s hands were shaking when he folded the letter and slid it carefully back in its envelope. He didn’t know why he was treating a piece of paper like a glass vase – especially given the fact that he wanted to rip it to shreds. Maybe it was because it represented Brian, and he wanted to treat it tenderly. After all, he couldn’t do so with the man himself.

God, it was agony being unable to talk to Brian about his letters! This latest one was particularly heartbreaking. To think that Brian was so desperate for love that he wished . . . God. Justin couldn’t even think about Brian’s words without tearing-up.

He left the letter on the coffee table and walked to the kitchen where he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, holding the cold plastic against his face. 

The letter had been shorter than the rest, but it was by far the most devastating. Even if he never read it again, he’d never be able to erase its words from his memory. 

They’d been watching a news segment on 60 Minutes about child sexual abuse in the Catholic Church, and Brian had started telling jokes about pedophilic priests as though he was making light of something upsetting. So, Justin had asked him point blank if he, himself, had been abused. Brian had scoffed, but Justin hadn’t let it go. Brian’s attitude virtually convinced him he was hiding something – which would hardly be surprising given the other things he’d hidden. They hadn’t got into a fight about it, but Brian and been cold and stand-offish for the rest of the weekend, snapping at him over inconsequential shit and squirming away when Justin tried to hold him. When Justin had left, Brian didn’t walk him to the gate like he usually did. Instead they'd parted with a quick kiss in the parking lot and mumbles of “I’ll call you later.”

The next day the letter arrived. Brian had overnighted it FedEx. 

_September 6, 2005_

_Dear Sunshine,_

_I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you. Not even Mikey, although I think if you asked him, he’d tell you he’s not surprised. Don’t make too much of it! It happened a long time ago, and I hardly even remember the details. It didn’t define me, and it didn’t shape my attitude about sex. It was just something that happened. Don’t make it into a bigger deal than it is._

_To answer your (obnoxious) question, no I wasn’t molested by a priest. Actually, most of the priests I encountered growing up were either nice or totally didn’t give a shit about me one way or another. Something did happen though. It was when we lived in Newark. My dad used to have his union buddies over for poker games. A bunch of times, one of them (I don’t remember his name) came into my room. He had black hair and a mustache. He kind of looked like Freddy Mercury actually. That’s all I remember. He’d tell me to take off my pajama bottoms, and then he’d play with my dick while he rubbed himself off through his pants. Nothing else ever happened. It’s not like he raped me or something. Like I said, it really wasn’t a big deal, but I figured it’s something you’d think you should know, and that’s the only reason I’m telling you. I don’t want to talk about it though – not even a little bit – so please don’t try._

_I will say that the really fucked-upped thing about the situation – the thing that upsets me the most – was how I felt about what was happening. The guy wasn’t scary. In fact, he told me he loved me and that he wished I was his kid. Even though what he did (getting off playing with my dick) freaked me out, it made me feel good to think he loved me. I actually thought that maybe he’d adopt me. I’d met his wife, and she seemed really nice. I thought to myself that once I was their kid, he’d stop doing what he was doing and we’d all live together in one, big, happy fucking family._

_Jesus Christ. How screwed up is that??_

_Ironically, the other really fucked-upped thing was that I was terrified my dad would find out and he blame me (which he would), and he and my mom would have me put in a foster home. God knows, I probably would’ve been better off with a different family. I guess it was a “devil you know” situation. Plus, I still had it in my head that things might change someday. I’d heard of kids whose dads had been drunks but then got sober and turned into decent parents. Of course, that never happened._

_Anyway, my dad never found out, and we only lived in Newark for a year, so the molestation stuff didn’t go on for long. And like I said, it’s not like the guy hurt me. So, that’s the whole story. No big deal. It was just one more sucky thing in a long list of sucky things._

_Sorry I was a dick._

_Love,_  
_B._

Justin closed his eyes and squeezed them shut until blobs of light danced behind his lids. There was no way he was going to go to that exhibit opening with his friends now – not after learning what he had about his husband. His arms ached to hold Brian so much it made him feel sick to his stomach.

He retrieved his phone from the kitchen island and went back to the living room. He hadn’t talked to anyone about Brian’s letters, but he felt differently about this one. He needed advice. He needed help.

He dialed Daphne’s number.

“Hey,” he said when she answered. Her voice was concerned when she replied. He’d never been able to hide anything from her.

“Justin, what’s up?” she asked. “Are you okay?

He took a deep breath.

“Actually, no I’m not.” There was a catch in his voice.

“Oh my God. What’s wrong? Is it Brian? It _can’t_ be Brian. Tell me you’re not calling because of Brian.”

Justin almost laughed. He wasn’t surprised she'd jumped to that conclusion. After all, he’d spent _hours_ on the phone with her right after he left for New York. Brian had shoved him off one of his cliffs and broken both of their hearts. That’s why they’d gotten married. It was the only way they could stay together without Brian freaking out every time Justin didn’t answer his phone. As ironic as it was, apparently Brian needed a ring on his finger – or, more accurately, a ring on Justin’s finger – to feel safe. So much for eschewing “heteronormative bullshit.” At the time, Justin hadn’t understood Brian’s insecurity. Now he did.

“Yes, it’s about Brian, but it’s not what you think?”

“Is he okay?”

“By ‘okay’ do you mean in a specific or a general sense?”

“Stop being cryptic, Justin. Just tell me what’s going on.”

He sighed. Now that it came down to it, he wasn’t sure he felt right about revealing Brian’s secrets, but then again, Brian had never made him promise not to. Maybe he’d anticipated that Justin would need to talk to someone.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Try at the beginning.”

He took a deep breath.

“Okay, but you have to _swear_ not to tell anyone what I’m about to say.”

“You know that goes without saying,” she replied with a hint of indignation.

“I know. It’s just . . . well, when I tell you what I’m about to tell you, you’ll see why I need you to promise.”

“I promise,” she said solemnly.

He took another deep breath.

“Daph. Brian is really _really_ fucked-up.”

She laughed a relieved laugh.

“Is that all? Jus, that isn’t exactly a news flash.”

He felt a stab of anger so hot and sharp that he almost told her – Daphne of all people! – to shut the fuck up.

“I’m being serious,” he snapped. “There’s nothing funny about it.”

She must’ve been able to tell he was furious because she apologized.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been flippant. Go on.”

Justin cleared his throat. He was feeling weirdly close to tears and he hadn't even said anything important yet.

“Now that we’re married, Brian has been opening up to me more than he ever used to. Remember how I’ve always complained about him never sharing information about his past? Well, now he is, and it scares the shit out of me, Daph.”

“In what way?”

“He was seriously abused. Not just physically but sexually, too.”

“Jesus!”

“I know.”

“By his dad?”

“Not the sexual abuse. His dad regularly beat the hell out of him, but he didn’t molest him. It was a friend of his dad who did.”

“God. That sucks.”

“Daph, he had no friends. His dad was constantly moving them all over the place. From what I’ve been able to gather, his family lived in four different cities in less than fourteen years. There are probably even more places he hasn’t told me about.”

“Poor guy.”

“I know. It makes me thankful we stayed in the same place while I was growing up. You and I probably wouldn’t have become friends if we hadn’t.”

“Just thinking about that makes me want to cry.”

“Just thinking about what Brian went through makes me _actually_ cry. He was molested, beaten-up at home, beaten-up at school, neglected by his mother . . .”

“Christ. It’s amazing he isn’t a basket case.”

“Whoever said he isn’t?”

“Well, it’s not like he’s depressed.”

“Daph, he’s _totally_ depressed. And even worse, he’s totally in denial. He keeps telling me over and over that the abuse and neglect he suffered didn’t affect him. He keeps telling me that none of it is a big deal and that he’s perfectly fine.”

“Do you think he’s telling you the truth?”

“I think he _thinks_ he’s telling me the truth.”

“So you think he’s been suppressing all this stuff for years.”

“Yeah. Basically. God, I wish I’d known even _half_ of what he’d been through. I never would’ve left him those times . . . Daph, I feel so fucking guilty.”

“But how could you possibly know if he never told you?”

“He didn’t tell me because I never asked.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure he would’ve told you even then. Don’t you think he’s revealing all these things now because you’re married and he’s less afraid you’ll leave him if he tells you about himself?”

“The thought’s occurred to me.”

“So, are you guys talking about all of this?”

Justin snorted despite himself. Talk? Yeah, right.

“No. He’s not even telling me anything in actual words. He’s writing it all down in letters.”

“And he’s making you promise not to discuss it.”

“Bingo.”

“But shouldn’t he be talking to _someone_? Can’t you get him to see a therapist or something?”

“Hello, Daph. We’re talking about Brian here. What are the chances of that ever happening?”

“Not so good.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what’re you going to do?”

“What _can_ I do? He’ll totally freak out if I try to have a conversation. He’ll withdraw and never tell me anything else.”

“Do you think that might be a good thing? Maybe digging up all these memories is a bad idea.”

“That’s occurred to me. But at the same time, I feel like I need to know these things. They’ll help me understand him better. He can be really hard to understand sometimes . . .”

“Again. Not a news flash . . .”

“. . . but I _want_ to understand him better. I want to know him heart and soul even if that means hearing some pretty difficult truths.”

“You’re not worried that’s a bit selfish? I mean, are you sure you’re not making this about you and not about him?”

“It’s occurred to me. Do you think I should tell him to stop writing these letters?”

“Maybe you could ask him if it’s okay. Maybe you should put the ball in his court.”

Justin was quiet for a moment. Her words made sense. They didn’t have to talk about the letters . . . at least not yet . . . but he could give Brian the option to keep his secrets without worrying he’ll upset him, and jeopardize their relationship. After all, Brian was still doing the whole “I just want to make you happy” thing. Justin had to constantly remind himself that what might make him happy, might make Brian miserable.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it,” she replied.

Justin laughed. He felt relieved – not better necessarily, but definitely relieved. He’d needed a plan. This way, if Brian continues writing the letters, he'll know it’s because Brian _wants_ to. Letting Brian do what he wants had always been crucial to their happiness. Fortunately, Brian usually wanted the same things Justin did – at least now.

“I’m going to call him,” he said.

“Maybe you should have this conversation face-to-face.”

“No, I agree. It’s just . . . I just need to hear his voice. I need to know he’s okay.”

“And you think you’ll be able to tell?”

He laughed. Of course he would. Brian could only keep secrets about his past. When it came to his present, he was an open book . . .

. . . not that Justin would ever tell him that.

As soon as he got off the phone with Daph, he called Brian only to get his voicemail. He was worried before he remembered that Brian had told him he was going to take a prospective client out to dinner.

“Hey,” he said after Brian’s “Kinney. Leave a message.” “No need to call me back. I just wanted you to know I love you.”

He was just about to get in the shower when he heard the ding of a text.

 _You, too. Now go out and have fun, you twat_.


	4. The Fourth Letter

September 14, 2005

Dear Sunshine,

I’ve thought a lot about our conversation this past weekend. You’re right. I do want to stop writing these letters. Like I’ve said before, they’re stirring up shit I’d rather leave unstirred. Sleeping dogs and all that. I mean, my dad’s dead. What’s the point in bitching about him?

But this isn’t just about me and my shit, is it? This is about you, too. And it’s about us. It’s about me trusting you.

I want this thing to last, Justin – this whatever-it-is we’ve got going. This marriage-ish, couply thing. I like it. I don’t want to fuck it up. I can’t picture my life without you in it, and I’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto you. If that means baring my soul, well, then I’ll bare it. You’re not “forcing me” to do this. If I didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t. You know that.

All of that said, I can tell this stuff is really affecting you. Don’t think I didn’t hear you crying. What you should know is that my life wasn’t a never-ending hell. There were some good times – not many, but there were some. My dad and I actually got a long alright when I was between the ages of nine and twelve. I think part of him enjoyed having a son. Like I told you, we sometimes went fishing and he took me to ball games. I remember he’d sometimes put his hand on the back of my neck and give it a little squeeze. It was as close to an actual hug as we ever got, but it still meant a lot to me.

So, you can see things weren’t all that bad. We even went on a couple trips together as a family, mostly camping in some shitty, little state park somewhere. Jesus, my mom hated those trips! It’s pretty hilarious looking back on how she’d sulk and burn the pancakes on-purpose. Have I ever mentioned that she’s passive-aggressive (I’m pretty sure that’s the right term)? She and Claire used to hang-out at the camping spot while my dad took me to Lake Whatever to catch perch. Every time I caught one, he’d slap me on the back and call me sonny boy. Of course, he’d be drinking beer the whole afternoon, and by the time we got back to my mom and Claire, he’d be looking for a fight, but I remember thinking of those trips as fun.

Speaking of picking fights – one time a guy in a nearby camp spot called the police because my dad was yelling at my mom, and we got told to pack up and leave. I think that might’ve been the last camping trip we ever took. I remember blaming my mom, even though my dad was the one drinking. Whenever they fought, I mostly blamed it on her. She’d do something she knew would provoke him, and he’d flip out every fucking time. I don’t know if I should start trying to think in a more nuanced way about her. I mean, blaming her for everything that was wrong with my dad doesn’t seem right or fair, but it’s a habit of thought I don’t know if I can kick. I used to wish they’d get a divorce because maybe then my dad would be nicer and stop drinking so much. Of course, that was an unrealistic hope. If my parents actually had divorced, I’m pretty sure my dad would’ve run for the hills.

My mom . . . I’ve been talking so much about my dad, but in some ways my mom was much worse. My dad was predictable. In the mornings, he was hungover and irritable as hell, and in the evenings he was a good, old fashion, mean-spirited, hot-headed, Irish-whiskey-drunk. On the weekends, though, he’d just drink beer and could actually be kind of mellow if none of us was pissing him off in some way. He’d even do regular dad stuff like grill hamburgers and wash the car. My mom was the opposite. She’d do normal mom stuff all the time, but she had this way of making you feel guilty about it. She’d spend the day while Claire and I were at school cleaning our bedrooms, doing our laundry, buying our food and clothes, and making us dinner, but she did it all like a slave at gun point. Claire and I would come home every afternoon to glasses of cold milk and fresh baked cookies, but she wouldn’t even say hello or ask how our days were. Instead she’d tell us not to get crumbs all over the place. We could tell that everything she did for us was never a pleasure. It was a duty – something she had to grit her teeth and bear. Sometimes I think she wore perfume for no other reason than to cover up the bitter smell of resentment.

So now you can probably see why Debbie is so important to me. Everything she did for me and Mikey was done with love. She didn’t feel obligated to do mom shit for us; she wanted to do it. Not once did she ever make us feel guilty because we existed. She was just totally zen about the whole thing. Yeah, she yelled at us now and then, but we always deserved it. She never simply lashed out at us for no reason, and, most importantly, she was never cold. She might get angry as hell, but she was never cold. My mom, though, was cold. As cold as fucking ice.

Thinking about all of this is making me realize why it is that I’m so wary of resentment. I grew up being resented, and I resented in return. Hell, my whole childhood can probably be summed up by the word. My dad resented me. My mom resented me. My sister resented me. And I resented them back. That’s the one thing we all had in common – we resented the shit out of each other. I think maybe that’s why I never tried to stop you from leaving me. It wasn’t that I didn’t love you because I did. It’s just that I didn’t want to make you stay if you didn’t want to. I didn’t want to become some kind of obligation. It’s why I didn’t want your help – or anyone’s help – after I was fired from Vanguard and when I had cancer. I didn’t want to be a burden as I’d been with my parents. Nothing is worse than being seen as a burden. Nothing. It’s even worse than being alone. Much worse, in fact.

I think you think I just let you walk out the doors of my life – that I didn’t fight your desire to leave because I didn’t care. If you think that, then you’re wrong. I always cared. Look at the whole Ethan situation. By the time I realized what was going on, you’d already fallen in love with him. If I had pleaded with you not to go, you might’ve stayed, but you would have resented me for it. You would’ve constantly been thinking about Ethan and what your life with him would’ve been like. Any time I pissed you off, you’d have thought, “fuck, I wish I hadn’t broken up with Ethan for this asshole.” I couldn’t bear that thought. I just simply could not fucking bear it. The same thing was true when you left me before the bombing. You were unhappy. I didn’t want you to stay with me if it was going to make you unhappy. I didn’t want you to simply put up with me. I wanted you to love me – to want to be with me. I wanted you to choose for yourself. After I was born, my parents could no longer choose me or not choose me. They were stuck with me. I never wanted you to feel stuck with me.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Now we’re married, and you really are stuck, aren’t you? Does it make a difference that you’re in New York – that I didn’t fight your decision to move there? Does it make you feel less stuck? If my mom had loved me – even if she never loved my dad – would she have felt less stuck? Or is that what being in relationship is all about by very definition? Is it merely about two people being stuck with each other? Being stuck to a particular place and a particular life? Because if it is, then relationships are fucked up, whether they are marriages or parenthood.

Be honest with me, Justin. Do you feel stuck? Have I given you enough space? Did you choose me or did I make you feel guilty because of the house and all that other shit. I know you were worried about me after the bombing. Did you agree to get back together because you were worried that if you didn’t, that I’d fall apart? Because I wouldn’t have. I will never fall apart, and no one has to fucking stick around to keep the pieces together. I can bake my own fucking cookies. I don’t need anyone. Not even you. I love you, but I don’t need you, and you sure as hell better not need me. Need is the essential ingredient for resentment, and resentment is the essential ingredient for bitterness. I made my parents resentful and bitter. I don’t want that to happen with you. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. Please tell me that’s not going to happen. Please tell me we didn’t fuck things up by getting married.

Fuck. 

I’m probably not going to send this letter, but if I do, know that I love you, that I want you, but that I don’t need you. You can fly away if you want to. I won’t try to hold you back. Just take off that fucking, stupid ring and fly. 

I’ll always be here if you want to come back. 

Yours Always,  
B.


	5. The Fifth Letter

September 18, 2005

Dear Sunshine,

You’re pissed off at me. I know that’s the reason you said you needed a little space. I missed seeing you this weekend, but I get it. If I was getting letters like these, I’d be freaked out too. They’re bucket loads of shit that I’m pouring on your head. Why do you want to keep doing this? It seems to be making both of us unhappy. I guess I don’t see the point.

I am not trying to push you off of some kind of cliff. I don’t even know what you mean by that term. How is telling you that I love you and that I won’t try to hold you back equivalent to some kind of ultimatum? I haven’t given you an ultimatum. I’m not forcing you to do something. I’m just trying to give you options. Why does that piss you off? I don’t get it.

Pushing someone off the cliff is like what my mom did when she made it clear she didn’t want anything to do with me if I didn’t “renounce” my homosexuality or some bull shit like that. I don’t think I ever told you what she said when I confronted Claire about the whole bat shit molestation thing. She basically told me I was going to hell and she was just peachy keen with it. She had no doubt in her mind that I’d molested my nephew. None. Her own son! Now that is a cliff. You say I do it time and time again – this cliff thing. You make it sound like I don’t accept you, that if you don’t change, I won’t love you. I don’t know whatever gave you that idea. Is it from talking to Linds? Is she telling you it was a mistake to marry me? I don’t know how (or why) I’ve become such an asshole in her opinion. She thought I was holding you back, but am I? You’re in New York. You’re painting. You were accepted into that snobby co-op thing. How am I holding you back? And if I am, what’s wrong with telling you that I won’t hate you if you decide you don’t want to stay together?

You asked why I’m so scared of commitments. Don’t you think that if I was scared of commitments I wouldn’t have married you? I’m not my dad. I don’t think in terms of “jails” and “wardens.” That’s what he called my mom, by the way, a prison warden. Jesus, what an asshole. I’m not saying anyone who’s not a martyr would want to live with my mom, I’m just saying that if you’re going to get married than be a fucking man about it. But Jack was never a man. He was a fucking child. Everything was someone else’s fault – my mom, his kids, his employer. He never acknowledged that he was the one who made his fucking bed. So, okay, he never intended to get married and have kids. Considering he told me that a million times, I get that. It’s no fucking secret. But he did get married and have kids. Marriage and parenthood are for life, asshole. Suck it up and do your job. Don’t just bitch and moan about it.

I know I’ve got some faults. I won’t try to deny that. But you have to admit that bitching and moaning about things isn’t one of them. Maybe I’ve failed, but at least I try to be a fucking man about things. I’d never blame anyone else for my actions, and I definitely wouldn’t solve my problems with my fists.

And I don’t push people I care about off cliffs.

Yours,  
B.


	6. The Sixth Letter

September 22, 2005

Dear Sunshine,

After our heated (not in a good way) phone call, I’m glad you surprised me (and, yes, I was definitely surprised when I came home from work and found you in bed in a . . . well, shall we simply say a "compromising position”?) I hope you know how much I enjoy fucking you. Don’t smirk! I mean it and not just in a purely sexual sense. I just like getting sweaty together. It’s fun.

Speaking of sex, you asked me why, except for the interrupted hand-job, I never had sex with Michael. It’s actually an easy question to answer. I simply found other people to fuck instead. Now if I hadn’t, would Mikey and I have fooled around? Probably. We were horny teenagers after all with a lot of time on our hands. But even before I decided I didn’t want to shit where I eat so to speak, I sensed that having sex with Mikey would change our relationship in a way that I didn’t want. I liked having just a regular, old friend for the first time in my life.

Also, I started fucking (or, more precisely, being fucked by) this older guy, and that pretty much satisfied my desire for sex. Because I know you’re going to ask me about him next weekend, I’ll just tell you now. Remember I told you about the coach I sucked off that time in the showers when I was fourteen? Well, he and I started getting together. It wasn’t a relationship or anything. When we talked at all, it was when we were getting dressed. He used to fuck me every day in his office during my free period. Anyway, to get back to your question, the guy – Mr. Kelley – knew that Mikey and I hung-out together all the time. He asked me once if we were fucking, and I told him no. He said that was good because you should never fuck friends. He told me this story about him and a friend in college and how they’d been close, but everything fell apart when they started having sex. I remember him telling me that friendship was something you had with people you care about, and fucking is about something you had with people you don’t. It made good sense to me. After the hand-jobs, Mikey had gotten kind of weird around me for a while, like maybe he thought we were more than friends because we’d touched each other’s dicks. It made me uncomfortable. It felt almost like incest in a way.

You know what’s funny – now that I’ve written all of this down, I realize Mr. Kelley wasn’t just giving me advice, he was telling me he didn’t give a shit about me. Not that that’s a revelation. He dropped me like hot potato when I turned sixteen, and another (younger) kid came along. It was pretty shitty, actually. One day, he’s got me bent over his desk, plowing my ass, and the next he’s literally telling me to bug off. I was upset about it. I guess maybe I’d started to think of him as some kind of weird father figure. Needless to say, being kicked aside by another “father” wasn’t fun. I used to stay late and hang-out around his office, but he ignored me completely. Finally, he took me aside and told me I didn’t mean anything to him, that he was just fucking me. I was nothing but a mouth and an asshole. I remember him shaking my arm like an angry principal. When I told Mikey about the whole thing, he’d gotten so upset he’d told Deb, and she had a fit. I remember she wanted to call the police on “that old pervert.” Thankfully, she didn’t. Can you imagine the resulting craziness?

I know, like Deb, you’re going to think I was molested (again), but I wasn’t. I wanted it. Not just sexually but emotionally as well. I also wanted it because even though he rarely spoke to me, he taught me a lot about what it means to be queer. It was all about fucking – as much as you possibly could. He didn’t just fuck me every day during my free period, he sometimes had me blow him in his car after and before school. The fucker couldn’t get enough, and eventually neither could I. Was it some kind of addiction? I’m sure you’re going to think it was, but unlike other kinds of addictions – like drinking and doing drugs – it never interfered with my life. So I fucked? Big deal. It wasn’t hurting anyone. It was pure pleasure with no consequences. My big mistake wasn’t the fucking. My big mistake was letting it happen too often with the same guy. Emotions ruined things. Emotions were for friends like Michael and eventually Linds. They weren’t for people whose ass you stuck your dick in. I learned that the hard way, but it only took one lesson. It only took one shitty experience. For most people it seems to take more than that. I always felt sorry for them, and, yeah, kind of contemptuous.

None of this should come as any surprise to you. I’m just telling you the origins of my philosophy. Good old Coach Kelley. He taught me more than just how to sink a ball in a net. I’m grateful actually. He saved me a lot of bullshit and unnecessary pain.

So why were you different? Why’d I let you in? Frankly, Justin, you really gave me no choice. You weren’t like the others. I couldn’t scare you off with my usual shit. You just kept coming back until I started not being able to imagine my life without you in it. 

I had a script for my tricks. I’d tell them that they couldn’t take a shower, even if I’d let them spend the night (which I only did when I was too tired to deal with the bullshit of kicking them out). No shower, no after-sex drinks or food. Hell, I wouldn’t even _talk_ to them unless it was to tell them to fuck off and go home. I often told some of them they sucked in bed even though they were great. There was only a handful I fucked more than once. I can count them on one hand. All of them were married, “straight” guys who couldn’t get away from me fast enough after we were done.

Christ. I’m such an asshole, aren’t I? Or rather was. To the extent I might want to trick still, I just don’t have what it takes to treat people like shit anymore, which means I’d run the risk of some guy thinking I was open for something more. Now _that_ is bullshit I don’t want to have to deal with. Why run the risk?

You’re laughing right now. I know it. You’re thinking the reason I’m no longer tricking has nothing to do with the random possibility someone might fall in love with me. You’re thinking that because we’re married now I only have eyes for you. Sorry to burst your bubble, but that’s just not true. I have eyes for every hot ass I see. Marriage doesn’t change that, and I hope you didn’t think it would. What marriage _did_ change though is my determination never to hurt you, ever, for any reason. You’ll deny it, but I know my tricking hurts you and always has. It’s the reason I’ve stopped. The only reason. Not because I don’t want to fuck other guys, but because it’s far more important to me to make you happy.

Is this a love letter? I suppose it is. But then again, all these letters have been love letters. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s true.

Yours,  
B.


	7. The Seventh Letter

October 15, 2005

Dear Sunshine (assuming you’re still willing to answer to that endearment),

Here we are – another weekend apart. I’m drunk. Are you surprised? I also fucked some asshole (literally and figuratively) at the baths. So, yeah. No more fucking raw for a while.

Justin, I’m sorry. Not about being drunk or even tricking because, well, it’s my own fucking business. I’m sorry that I told you to get out of my life. I might’ve meant it at the time, but “the time” only lasted about as long as my flight back to Pittsburgh. I don’t want to break-up. Please believe me. It’s just that you’d promised not to bring up the whole therapy thing. I AM NOT GOING TO A THERAPIST! That’s final, got it? Not happening. Honestly, I don’t see why you’re so fucking adamant about it. If I still have issues from my childhood (which I don’t), they’re my issues. I don’t see how they affect you. I’ve never come to you whining and complaining about mommy and daddy. Remember you’re the one who wanted me to talk about all of this, not me.

I don’t understand society’s fixation with “exploring your feelings” and “finding closure” and all that crap. What good comes from it? We hadn’t had even one single fight for months before you started with this letter-writing bullshit, and now we’re fighting all the time. That’s where “exploring my feelings” has gotten us. People should stop sniveling and grow-up. It’s what I’ve always told Mikey whenever he starts bitching about Deb. Okay, so maybe she smothered him and tried to micromanage his life. Get the fuck over it! I’ve never understood why it isn’t obvious to him why she did that. She’d mother a rock if it was the only thing left in the world to mother, so it’s no wonder she’s overprotective of her only child. Duh. Plus, how does being “smothered” by a parent damage anyone? Okay, so it might be annoying as hell, but it can’t fucking scar you for life. I mean, look at him. He’s not in a fucking asylum. He’s just fine.

Just so you know, you’re not the first one to try to make me get my head shrunk. Linds tried that too back when we were in college. I was a bit down at the time because I’d had to go back to living with my parents for a while because I’d lost a job at a fucking fast food place (long story), and Jack was being an even worse prick than usual. He was pissed that I was in college and not going to fucking plumbing school or whatever. He’d call me a “sissy college boy.” I was drinking a lot at the time, and we’d get in these huge fights. The big difference between then and when I’d been a kid though, was that I was bigger than him, so when he took a swing at me, I took a swing right back. Once he was giving me a raft of shit about something – I don’t even remember what – I shoved him against the kitchen stove. The problem was my mom was boiling water for spaghetti, and Jack knocked the pot off the stove and got pretty badly burned. Mom took him to the hospital. I’ll never forget the bastard’s face. He had this wide-eyed look like he was seeing me for the first time. It felt good.

Anyway, I told Linds about the whole thing, and she flipped out. She thought “taking pleasure” from hurting my dad was loony bin material, so I tried to explain myself by telling her all these horrible stories from when I was growing up. I mean, Jack wasn’t the only one who’d had to go to the emergency room after a fight got out of hand. The fucker broke my right arm when I was fourteen. It made giving Mr. Kelley a hand job rather difficult (joke). There were also stitches and a dislocated shoulder once – the same one I dislocated on the Liberty Ride actually. So, yeah, it’d felt good to have the upper hand for a change. Shoot me.

Linds got so upset after I told her some of the shit that’d gone down in the ol’ Kinney Clan household that she made me swear I’d go see a school counselor. (Which I did because I was feeling guilty about having hurt Linds when I broke up with her – again, long story.) After a couple sessions, the guy told me I had “anti-social personality disorder” and even worse that I had “psychopathic tendencies” stemming from “years of abuse.” He made me feel like I was a baby serial killer or something. But what broke the camel’s back was his threat that he’d have to contact the police if he thought I was a “danger to my father.” Can you fucking believe that???? The fucking irony of ironies. So I stopped going. Linds was upset until I told her about the whole involuntary commitment thing, and then she apologized for making me go in the first place.

I can hear your counterargument in my head right now – “You had one bad experience, Brian. That guy sounds really unprofessional. We can find you someone who actually knows what he’s doing.” Here’s my answer – “Once bitten, twice shy.” It’s not avoidance, it’s fucking Darwin. Creatures don’t evolve unless they learn quickly from their mistakes. Imagine some cave guy trying to pet a tiger – nice kitty, kitty – and his arm gets bitten off. Unless he’s a fucking moron, that guy’s never going to try to pet a tiger again.

(Speaking of which, after the whole incident with my dad, he never took another swing at me again, which was smart because I was in a bad place that year and I might’ve ripped his fucking head off if he touched me one more time.)

Look, I’m going to bed. It’s really late, and I’m really tired and pissed off at myself. I miss you like fucking crazy. Can we please let this whole therapy thing go? I don’t want it to come between us. I fucking love you. Life has sucked these past couple weeks. I’ve been drinking too much and sleeping too little. I miss you so fucking much. Please just let it rest, okay?

Yours,  
B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about falling behind with comments - the new job is really exhausting and all-consuming :-/ Keep 'em coming though. Even if I don't have the time/energy to respond, I still love reading them.


	8. The Eighth Letter

There was a large manila envelope waiting in Justin’s mailbox when he got home from work.

He and Brian hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in almost a month, but it wasn’t Brian’s doing this time. It was Justin’s. He wasn’t ready to talk to Brian yet, let alone see him.

Looking back, he’d like to think that the whole letter thing had been a mistake for which he could apologize, but it wasn’t. Far from it, in fact. He'd learned more about Brian in a matter of weeks than he had in five years. Something about their one-sided correspondence had opened a floodgate, and Brian was growing more and more concrete and _real_ all the time. Justin read his letters over and over – first the words themselves for what they said, and then the spaces between the words for the deeper truths. Truths he was pretty sure Brian didn’t even know he was admitting.

They’d had a whopper of a fight last time they’d been together. Justin had finally forced himself to demand that Brian seek therapy of some kind. He’d been preparing for the conversation all week, trying to anticipate Brian’s every argument. But what he hadn’t been prepared for was Brian’s flat, icy order to get the fuck out of his business and the fuck out of his life. Nor had he been prepared for Brian getting out of bed, dressing and leaving without his things and without another word.

Justin had been _beyond_ angry. It was classic Brian. Cold, cruel, dismissive, unwilling to engage in a discussion. Justin had been shocked. He’d been sure that after they’d gotten married that he’d never have to deal with that Brian again.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

He had no doubt that Brian’s subsequent apologies and declarations of love were genuine. Justin could hear the anguish in his voice when he left messages in Justin’s voicemail, and he could read the real fear and regret in his emails. It wasn’t Brian’s love and devotion that he doubted (even considering the tricking bullshit) – it was his sanity.

Hence Justin’s plea that he get help.

The necessity trumped everything – even their relationship. The depth of abuse and neglect, the avoidance, the rationalizations, the denial. It was staggering! If Justin had to use himself as leverage . . . well, then that was what he had to do. Brian thought he could get him to “drop it.” Did Brian know him at all? Since when had Justin “dropped” something he felt adamant about?

Hence the ultimatum.

Justin took another deep breath. What would the envelope contain? He’d felt for the circular shape of a ring, but he hadn’t found it. Apparently it contained nothing but paper. Which was a relief . . . sort of. Brian was still in shock and grief mode. What would happen when shock and grief turned to anger . . . and then the rage of which Justin well knew he was capable?

He’d always wondered what’d been going through Brian’s mind the night he tore up his and Michael’s comics and then pissed – literally _pissed_ – on their hard work. Who does that?? It’d been truly fucked up. Justin knew anger – hell, he’d put the barrel of a gun in Chris Hobbs’s mouth – but his anger simmered and bubbled. It wasn’t volcanic and unpredictable. It didn’t make him drive a Jeep through the plate glass display window of a car dealership.

What’d been going through Brian’s mind when he’d stepped on the gas pedal? What’d been going through his mind when he pulled out his dick and urinated on his best friend and lover’s beloved project?

Justin suspected the answer was . . . . nothing. In both cases (and countless more), Brian had been on autopilot. Something deep and unconscious had propelled him to act violently and, yes, antisocially. It was clear now what that something was and where it had come from. At least it was clear to Justin. But to Brian, it certainly was not.

Brian needed help. He’d always needed help, but now he needed it even more. His last drunken letter had proved that.

Justin snorted ruefully. Once he would’ve given anything to have Brian’s heart in his hands, but now that he did, it was a terrifying bequeathal. The truth was – and Justin now knew it in his core – that Brian would not be okay without him. Brian had opened up his emotional veins and the only thing stopping him from bleeding to death was Justin – Justin was the bandage. The tourniquet.

 _You have to admit_ , Daphne had told him when he confessed his fears to her. _It’s kind of romantic. Ethan never loved you like that. Heck, most people are never loved like that. Cherish it, Jus._

 _But it’s not love_ , he’d told her. _It’s dependence_.

 _And you think the two can be separated?_ she’d replied.

It was a good question – a question that Justin wanted Brian to be able to answer in the affirmative.

 _I love you, but I don’t need you_ , Brian had said.

Bullshit. 

Justin had a terrible feeling that the only one standing between Brian and a hell of pain was him. It was too heavy a burden to bear. He needed help, and the only thing he could think of was a therapist.

He’d considered Gus as a possibility, but a child can’t stand between his parent and his parent’s pain. He’d also considered Linds, but Linds was incapable of caring for herself emotionally, let alone Brian. Nope, it was him alone. His job. A job he knew he might come to resent someday, and resentment was what Brian feared most above all things – even abandonment and loneliness. 

Before he could talk himself into setting it aside, Justin tore open the envelope, and when he did several pieces of paper fell out. All of them were handwritten except one. Justin unfolded it first.

_October 21, 2005_

_Dear Sunshine_ ,

_This isn’t the first draft of this letter. It’s not even the fifth. Jesus, Justin, what the fuck? Are you serious about all of this? Okay, stupid question. Obviously, you’re serious or you would’ve returned my fucking calls._

_I’m not going to therapy. I don’t know how much clearer I can be on that point. I’m not “sick.” I don’t need “help.” You’re subordinating your own observations to this whole societal childhood trauma thing. Am I able to run two successful businesses? Am I crying all the time? Do I flinch every time there’s a loud noise? Do I have nightmares? How about hallucinations and paranoid thoughts? I’m fine, Justin._

_I have a feeling, though, that nothing I can say will make you believe that. You’re so sure that getting a couple slaps when you were a kid or having some loser perv play with your dick a couple times, by definition, scars a person for life. Maybe some people, but not me._

_But this being apart from you thing is killing me. I’ve never felt so alone before. I feel like revealing all of this shit was like stripping off layers of clothes until I’m just standing here naked and freezing my ass off. I know that what we have together stretches the definition of marriage a bit (okay, a lot), but I never thought you’d leave me again. Isn’t that’s what marriage is about? Promising to always be together no matter what bullshit life throws at you? Because if it’s not, then it’s a fucking lie that I’ve been stupid enough to buy into._

_You’ll be happy to know(?) that I visited Clare this afternoon and gave her enough money to pay off her creditors. I told her it was the first and last time, though. Christ, you should see what shit she’d gotten herself into! Several maxed-out credit cards and an underwater, refinanced mortgage – what a dipshit._

_Anyway, why would you care about my stupid sister’s stupid problems? The only reason I’m mentioning any of this is because Clare and I got talking. Nothing deep or anything. We just talked about all the houses we used to live in and schools we went to and about how dad was always getting laid-off and mom was always involved in some church thing or another. Like I said, nothing deep. It was weird. Not good, not bad, just weird. When I was about to leave, she told me to wait a minute and went upstairs. She came down with an old box that I just knew had to have family shit inside it. I wanted to bolt because I am NOT going to sing fucking Kumbayah about Jack and Joan, but she didn’t say anything. She just handed me these letters I’m sending you. Make of them what you will. I still don’t know what to think, but I was hoping that maybe they could be a peace offering of some kind._

_I miss you._

_Yours,  
B._

Justin stooped and picked up the pieces of paper that’d fallen out of the envelope when he opened it. To say his heart was in his throat was an understatement. He had _no_ idea what to expect. He unfolded the first piece of a paper – and realized it was a handwritten letter.

_April 25, 1971_

_Jack_ ,

 _It’s good to hear from you, cousin. I hope you’re keeping well. Thanks for the update. I’m surprised to hear your union is striking again especially with the tannery closing down. There will be plenty of scabs willing to work for half of what you and your boys are asking for. I thought things were bad here with the Cork port cutting half its employees. Speaking of which I’m thinking of going back to Killarney. I know I swore I never would, but mum’s sick again and Seamus has his hands full with another kid on the way. He’ll need some help with the store._

_Talking of kids, I guess congratulations are in order. Is it a boy or a girl? How’s Joanie doing? Send her my love, will you, and tell her Mary says hello._

_Patrick_

Justin let the letter slip through his fingers and join the others on the floor again. He was in shock. Jack had just become a father of a son and all he could talk about was an upcoming union strike? Jesus fucking Christ!

He stooped to pick up another letter with its faded script.

_October 3, 1971_

_Jack,_

_How are you keeping? It’s been a long time since I heard from you. Are things alright?_

_There’s nothing new here to report. Mary and I and the kids haven’t moved back to Killarney yet but we’re still thinking about it. The problem is my eldest has epilepsy and the hospitals are better here in the city. Poor kid. It’s hard as a father to have to watch your kid have problems. I wish there was more Mary and I could do for her. She’s got a long road to tread ahead of her._

_Mary tells me that Joanie called and said you’ve got a son of your own now. Mind you I love my girls, but there’s nothing like having a son. I have to say though that I found it strange you named him Brian after our old bastard of a grandfather. Did you have a moment of drunk nostalgia?_

_Patrick_

Justin picked up the rest of the letters – eleven in all – and took them to the sofa. He skimmed one after the other looking for mentions of Brian, but found only a few, most of them in the form of questions like “how’s your son doing?” and “is Brian playing baseball like his old man?” Only one letter indicated that Jack ever wrote his cousin about anything other than himself and all it said was that it was a shame Jack had to miss Brian’s high school graduation.

Justin rubbed his face to scrub away the welling tears. There was something about reading the letters – something about the all but complete absence of any mention of Jack’s kids – that finally drove home the fact that Brian had grown up unloved and unwanted. This “Patrick” always had something to say about his children, but it was obvious from his questions that Jack rarely even acknowledged he had children at all. What the fuck had been going through Jack’s head? Or not going through his head as the case may be.

“Oh, Brian,” Justin said to the empty room. His husband’s name felt strange on his tongue as though he’d never said it before. “Brian,” he said again.

What had it been like for Brian to read these letters? He’d probably been alone at home, probably getting drunk, probably reliving years of neglect, probably wishing Justin had never kicked the hornets’ nest.

Before he could think of any reason not to, Justin found his phone and dialed Brian’s number.

“Hey,” Brian said, his voice questioning and tentative.

It broke Justin’s heart.

“Hey,” he replied, his own voice anything but tentative. “I’m coming home.”

Brian greeted his pronouncement with a long silence. Justin braced himself for the fight. It didn’t come.

Finally Brian spoke. “Okay,” said. And then again, sounding surer this time.

“Okay.”

 

TBC


End file.
